[000] The Dream
The dream begins like this: He is being held in someone's hands. Literally, two giant hands are holding him, cupped like they would be to hold water. They're a woman's hands, gentle and pale and tapered. Thin wrists, deep creases. He looks down at the wrists and the forearms but beyond that everything disappears into a thick, murky darkness. It's just him and these hands, floating in a black emptiness.
"What's going on?" he shouts into the darkness. "Who are you?"
At first, the only response is laughter: a throaty female laugh. And then that same voice whispers, so close that he could swear she was talking straight into his ear, "No more."
The hands are gone in that same moment, and he's falling, hands stretching out overhead. He hits a barrier that parts and swallows him like water would. The impact stings like water would as well but when he's through it, he finds he can still breathe, and he's floating now, over a cityscape that's tinted green. But it's wreckage more than city, collapsed and battered. The building's falling over one another or, in some cases, only a jagged foundation against the skyline.
"I guess that's what happens," says a voice behind him, male, laughing, familiar. He tries to whirl around, but whatever is keeping him afloat slows him down as well. The turn is sluggish and flailing and by the time he has made it all the way around, whoever was there is gone.
Except not, because the same male voice echoes behind him a second later.
"You're slow. Didn't we practice this?"
He struggles around again and this time, there's a figure waiting for him. It's not much more than an outline, the basic shape of a boy, like his mind couldn't remember the details to fill them in. If he squints, he can actually see through it to the city behind.
"Who are you?" he shouts. "Practice what? What's going on?"
The figure shrugs. "Oh, well," it says, and it drifts forward until it is so close it could reach out and touch him. He finds he wants it to. He thinks that might ground him, fix this, wake him up.
But it doesn't. Instead, it bursts into flame, a sudden human torch. It's so hot it singes his hair, feels like a really bad sunburn against his cheeks.
"Stop that," he shouts in a sudden panic that catches him in the chest like a blow.
The figure shrugs, calm even through the blaze. "You stop it," it says.
He squeezes his eyes tight against the light and the heat. He feels terror and frustration and an immense, unbridgeable gulf of helplessness. Without really thinking it, without intending it, he says, "I don't want this! Please! No more."
"What's going on?" he shouts into the darkness. "Who are you?"
At first, the only response is laughter: a throaty female laugh. And then that same voice whispers, so close that he could swear she was talking straight into his ear, "No more."
The hands are gone in that same moment, and he's falling, hands stretching out overhead. He hits a barrier that parts and swallows him like water would. The impact stings like water would as well but when he's through it, he finds he can still breathe, and he's floating now, over a cityscape that's tinted green. But it's wreckage more than city, collapsed and battered. The building's falling over one another or, in some cases, only a jagged foundation against the skyline.
"I guess that's what happens," says a voice behind him, male, laughing, familiar. He tries to whirl around, but whatever is keeping him afloat slows him down as well. The turn is sluggish and flailing and by the time he has made it all the way around, whoever was there is gone.
Except not, because the same male voice echoes behind him a second later.
"You're slow. Didn't we practice this?"
He struggles around again and this time, there's a figure waiting for him. It's not much more than an outline, the basic shape of a boy, like his mind couldn't remember the details to fill them in. If he squints, he can actually see through it to the city behind.
"Who are you?" he shouts. "Practice what? What's going on?"
The figure shrugs. "Oh, well," it says, and it drifts forward until it is so close it could reach out and touch him. He finds he wants it to. He thinks that might ground him, fix this, wake him up.
But it doesn't. Instead, it bursts into flame, a sudden human torch. It's so hot it singes his hair, feels like a really bad sunburn against his cheeks.
"Stop that," he shouts in a sudden panic that catches him in the chest like a blow.
The figure shrugs, calm even through the blaze. "You stop it," it says.
He squeezes his eyes tight against the light and the heat. He feels terror and frustration and an immense, unbridgeable gulf of helplessness. Without really thinking it, without intending it, he says, "I don't want this! Please! No more."